


The Immortal Empress

by Lostinthenarrative



Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: Deviates From Canon, Knights of the Fallen Empire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-05 00:16:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11566365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lostinthenarrative/pseuds/Lostinthenarrative
Summary: Vaylin's attack leaves Odessen burning and the Alliance wounded. Out of the chaos a new Empress emerges, one more powerful and cunning than the last.





	1. Death and All His Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set loosely based on KOTET Chapter 8

“Vaylin’s here.” Darth Zorex’s voice sounded low over the intercom. “And she brought friends. Could use a hand, or plenty.”

“On our way.” Cyresse Gray turned to Vette. “You gonna be OK?”

“Roughed up a little, but I’ll survive.” The blue skinned Twi’lek grimaces as she leant against the half-charred shell of what had once been an artillery gun firing vehemently across the Odessen forestation. “I’ll stay here and recover, go help Zorex. He gets testy if you keep him waiting.” Vette manages a wink. 

“There could be more Skytroopers heading this way.” Cyresse says after a moment’s consideration, glancing at her other companion briefly, “perhaps Master Faye should stay with you.”

“Are you crazy?” The Jedi Master in question turns to her in shock. “You heard Zorex. You’re going to need all the help you can get.”

“That may be but -“ 

_Once again the vision rises unbidden, mutating the lush forest landscape around her. Cold concrete grows out of the tall grass, the green of the leaves giving way to stone and blood. A Twi’lek’s body, Jedi robes slashed and stained a deep vermillion. A hooded shadow stretching out across the floor._

“Just trust me Tahlia.” Cyresse places a hand on the younger Jedi’s shoulder. “Please.”

Tahlia Faye sighs but concedes, her green lekku giving an almost indiscernible shake of disapproval. “Alright...but this is Vaylin we’re talking about. Without her conditioning.” she emphasizes. “Be careful.”

Cyresse nods, swallowing the lump that seemed to swell up from her gut. Willing her surroundings to lose its sudden gory decor, she turned to head back to base. The sound of her boots crunching across branches and foliage reassured her little. Anxiety pooled sweat under her arms despite the night’s chill.

_There is no emotion. There is peace._

Her Jedi teachings always warned of attachments. Attachments led to passion, led to fear and to fury. Which in its turn led to the dark. Fallen Jedi do terrible deeds for the sake of their loves. Or so they said. As if fear would always lead to rage, as if it would always lead to action. What they never spoke about was the way fear would cling to one’s limbs, weighing one down, and eating one’s courage from the inside out. Fear was a hundred voices amplifying the doubts she kept buried deep within her, questioning her ability, whispering reminders of a time she’d forced herself to forget. 

Master Cyresse Gray, Hero of Tython, Battlemaster of the Jedi Order - or what was left of it -, was afraid. But what choice did she have, it was fight or death. Not of hers but of all her friends. She had seen it happen in her dreams; she saw it happen every time she closed her eyes. She would not let it happen again. Fighting against the tendrils of anxiety that wrapped silent fingers around her ankles, she pressed on towards the base. Her grip on her lightsaber was almost shaky.

-

By the time she arrives a thick column of smoke is steadily rising from the direction of the war room. Quickening her pace, Cyresse raced across the hangar bay, through corridors, and past the smoking remains of her own quarters, dispatching whatever Skytroopers or Knights of Zakuul stood in her way with an almost un-Jedi like efficiency. She followed the hum and clash of lightsabers, the crackle of lightning and shrill laughter. And as she got closer, the familiar sound of blaster fire. It could have been more Skytroopers but she knew it was him. Amidst all the chaos she still needn’t even try to discern his presence.

“You’re just in time to watch your friends die.” Vaylin sneers as she sent a fork of lightning in Cyresse’s direction.

Cyresse swung her lightsaber wide as she tucked into a roll. A blue arch careened across the room, almost cutting her attacker in half had Vaylin not deflected with her own golden blade. Darth Zorex, a blur of red and black, advanced, eager to seize an opening. He thrust and parried. Once. Twice.

Cyresse feels his death before she sees his body crumple. A cry catches in her throat as his lightsaber - still momentarily ignited - skids across the floor. A woman screamed.

Unthinking she leaps. And then she is flying - the wrong way. Her body collides against hard concrete before she feels the pain, sharp and swift, against the back of her skull.

This isn’t supposed to be how it ends.

Picking her way through the bodies - of Knights and Alliance Fighters alike - strewn across the ground, Vaylin raises a hand, her fingertips crackling white-hot energy. But not at her.

 _Theron_ \- no.

Cyresse moves, but too late. Pure unbridled force, an arch of violet seared across her vision. She hears herself screaming as Vaylin cackles, her laughter resounding even above the storm, high and manic. Cyresse surges forward as the ground around her trembles and fissures, only to be flung violently backward by a wave of light, hot and bright. Blinding. Vaguely, she can feel herself bleeding. Her ears ring with the sound of laughter and defeat.

And then silence.

Cyresse lay on the ground unmoving. Around her, Odessen lay in ruins.


	2. Recovery and Revelations

Odessen lay in ruins. Pillars of black smoke and ash rose out of craters blasted through buildings and ground. The forest for miles out seemed to sag under the weight of defeat. But in the stillness of the morning anew life stirred amongst the trees as Odessen’s survivors regrouped and attended to its wounded. The Knights of Zakuul and its Skytroopers were conspicuously missing.

“Wake up.” Cyresse felt a tug at her shoulder. “You have to get up.”

Cracking open one eye, she finds Lana Beniko, a bloody gash across her forehead but otherwise intact, nudging her gently.

“Lana?” Cyresse murmurs, “This feels like Zakuul all over again.”

The Sith gives a rather uncharacteristic snort in response as she helps Cyresse to a sitting position. “I’d say our current situation is slightly improved.” She nods towards an inert figure a short distance away, “Vaylin’s dead.”

“She’s dead?” Cyresse pushes herself to her feet with a grunt. Her whole body feels as if she’d been trampled by a herd of banthas. “But how? Last thing I remember…”

_Theron._

She glances around desperately. There are a number of Alliance forces about, some graciously draping sheets across the fallen, others tending to the wounded. It seemed most of the fight had happened here, on the footstep of the place she had come to call home. She catches a glimpse of Gault, holding a wad of cloth against his one remaining horn. The Mirialan beside him has to be Hylo. And in the distance she can hear Mandalore’s distinct accent cutting through the rank and file. Yet Theron’s nowhere to be seen.

“Theron’s in the medical bay.” Lana rests a hand on her forearm. “He’s alive,” she quickly adds, noticing what remaining colour had drained from the Jedi’s face. “Bruised and unconscious, but alive.”

Cyresse let out the breath she’d been unconsciously holding. Her fists - knuckles clenched white in fear - uncurl. Bruised and unconscious, but _alive._ Cyresse could live with that for now. It was after all, a state the agent all too frequently found himself in. He’ll come out all right, Cyresse told herself, he always did. She gestures to the gash on Lana’s forehead, “You ought to be in medical yourself, that looks pretty bad.”

“It’s just a scratch.” Lana waves her off. “It’s nothing compared to you. Come, let's get out of here.”

Cyresse glances down at her blood stained tunic. Granted most of the blood isn’t hers but she can feel the way parts of her clothing cling to her skin, tackier than the way it would have had it just been her sweat. With less adrenaline in her veins she starts to feel the pain more acutely. The gash she’d sustained across her left bicep – courtesy of one of Nathema’s creatures – has opened up again and seems to throb in tune with the back of her head. Not to mention the number of ribs she may have bruised when Vaylin had slammed her against the wall.

She accepts Lana’s proffered arm for support, “I look that bad huh?”

“I’ve seen worse.” Lana admits, steering her in the direction of the Alliance's med-bay. The Sith looks away, seemingly to retreat into herself before continuing. “Darth Zorex wasn’t as fortunate, as you’re probably aware. I don’t know how he –“ her voice trails off as she rubs absently at a trickle of blood that had made its way down her temple. “He kept on fighting long after he shouldn’t have. Took a hit right –“ she gestures across her abdomen, “to keep Vaylin off me.”

“Zorex was a hero.” Cyresse says firmly, stopping to look the Sith in the eye. Knowing Lana she doesn’t try to touch her. She knows how the Sith needs her personal space at times like these. “Anyone else?” she asks instead.

“We’re still tallying numbers.” Lana replies before abruptly stopping to fish something out from the folds of her robes. “Hang on, I almost forgot”, she brings out her holocommunicator, “we received a message from Zakuul sometime last night. I haven’t had a chance to review it.” She brings up a recording that flickers once before giving life to a miniature of Darth Occlus.

“We have succeeded.” Occlus begins rather haughtily. “Your diversion was a success. With Vaylin preoccupied we faced less opposition than was even expected. Minor casualties while Captain Vontair and I are mostly unscathed. We’ve secured the Throne – ” The Dark Lord pauses for a second to glance over her shoulder and nod. “Yes, make the preparations,” she says, addressing someone in her peripheral whom Cyresse assumes to be the Captain. Occlus turns back around and readjusts her hood carefully before continuing, “– though not without some trouble from the erstwhile Emperor.”

“Can’t say that was unexpected.” Lana scoffs.

“However,” Occlus continues, “the little trinket we discovered on Nathema proved to be his downfall. We won’t be pestered by his incessant ramblings any longer.” With the hood obscuring her face it was difficult to read Occlus’ expression. Yet considering the circumstances being what they were it almost seemed as if the usually impassive Sith was smiling. Lana glanced at the Jedi who stood beside her. Despite the blood and dirt, hers was a face Lana was in close enough proximity to read clearly. Cyresse’s expression remained grim, her mouth set in a thin hard line.

In the background Darth Occlus’ hologram went on, “I have not been able to get ahold of any of you at this time, therefore I’m assuming Vaylin’s invasion continues. We shall be returning to Odessen with reinforcements and we will make Vaylin pay. May the force serve you.” With a nod, the hologram of Darth Occlus clicks off.

“Do you think it’s true?” Cyresse had to ask, unease still knotting her gut. “Is he really – I mean _can_ he really be gone? I can’t feel his presence now but I know from experience it doesn’t mean he’s gone for good.”

“I don’t know.” Lana admits, frowning. “I suppose we’ll have to wait for their return before we get more details. But for now,” she gently guides her companion forward, “you really ought to be in Kolto.”

 

-

 

What remains of the Alliance’s medical bay is in chaos. Cyresse attempts to make out Theron’s distinct red jacket as Lana herds her between the broken and bloodied bodies lying prone in cots and wherever there is clean space available. A medic, a former Republican, recognizes Cyresse and attempts to direct her to a nearby Kolto tank. She waves him off, accepting instead to be deposited on a spare cot, its previous occupant covered and carried out with as much dignity as can be offered to the dead.

“I leave you in their capable hands,” Lana says, squeezing the Jedi’s hand once as she readies to leave, “I’m afraid there are other matters I must attend to.”

“Lana“ Cyresse calls out to the Sith’s retreating back, “About Vaylin…”

“Not here.” Lana inclines her head to the side indicating the crowd around them. There was no need for anyone outside of the council to know the details. In a lower voice she says, “The important thing is that she’s not showing any life signs. We’ll figure out the ‘how’ later.”

Cyresse nods reluctantly as Lana departs. She lies back as the medic helps her out of her bloodied garments, closing her eyes as he presses a cool damp cloth against her wounds. It stings in a way she almost enjoys, the pain sharply bringing her focus away from the noise and death around her. It’s a sensation akin to drowning, all her senses pinpointing to each aching area in her body as everything else – even the rank smell of sweat and blood, so concentrated here in the closeness of the med-bay – disappears. She revels in these moments; the quiet in the aftermath of a battle, the way her body trembles in exhaustion and how her muscles ache with every move. She enjoys even the sharp pains she feels when she moves in a way she shouldn’t, feeling herself bleed as a consequence.

The pain. The pain is a reminder that she _feels_. There was a time when she hadn’t been able to feel her own body, when she hadn't been able to feel the pain she was dealt nor the pain she inflicted. It's a memory she doesn't care to revisit and one she quickly drives from her mind. Supplanting it ascends an image of Zakuul’s spire, its lofty walkway suspiciously devoid of Knights or Skytroopers. The Eternal Throne sits at its apex. Empty. Beckoning.

_You cannot let who you were stop you from becoming who you're supposed to be._

Once again they’re standing above the wreckage of the Senate Tower. She chokes on a cry that will never be heard as she looks down upon the bodies that litter the open square. Jedi. Republic soldiers. Civilians. Their torsos all bear telltale signs of a lightsaber, glimmering blue.


	3. Politics in Power

At the foot of a mountain where the ruins of an ancient temple once stood, a clearing’s been made in the undergrowth for the Alliance to mourn their dead. Shrouded in the morning’s mist, they stand erect – Jedi and Sith alike, huddled together with hoods raised in respect for the fallen.

Every death gets their moment and the line of caskets stretches on. Darth Zorex lies in a heavy sarcophagus, its long slabs of dark stone sleek and unmarred by superfluous embellishments. It strikes Cyresse as oddly simple, almost _quiet,_ for a man who seemed to rush through life with the vigor of a Horned Kath Hound, all the while sporting a ridiculously ornate mask of red and gold. He’d been the one to strike Emperor Valkorion down, all those years ago.

It was ironic really; the Emperor’s Wrath, the only one brave enough to defy his own master. And what of the exalted Jedi Knight, trained since young for this very purpose?

She’d knelt in fear.

And now she lived while he lay dead in a stone coffin so much less than he deserved.

Her attention turns to a low sobbing emitting softly behind her right shoulder. She turns to find Vette, the Twi’lek’s usually sunny countenance washed away with grief. Avus Dayne, an Alliance pilot, stands beside her, anxiously attempting to stroke her lekku in an effort to console her.

“He’d like this you know?” Vette hiccups to him between sobs. “Being under the open sky like this. Hated tombs – weird for a Sith I know,” she gives a shaky laugh, “almost got buried alive once with Jae–“ Here a fresh stream of tears rolled down her cheeks as the sarcophagus makes its descent, lower and lower into the dirt. “Oh Jaesa, we never found her and now it’s too _late_.”

Avus finally summons the courage to draw the sobbing Twi’lek into his arms and rather awkwardly the pair – Vette’s face buried into his shoulder – retreat back to base.

The funeral goes on.

Cyresse stays through it all as one by one each casket is lowered into the ground. She can feel the grief and sadness of those around her permeating through the Force. Still she stays. Eventually the morning’s mist melds into a cold, damp rain that causes her to shiver and draw her rain-soaked robes closer together.

“We should go in.” Tahlia touches her shoulder gently. “They could probably use our help in the med bay.”

“You go. I’m not much good at healing anyway.”

“Ress, there’s hardly anyone else left.”

When Cyresse stubbornly shows no inclination of moving, Tahlia sighs and draws her close into a tight hug. “You really need to stop blaming yourself,” she says sadly.

Cyresse gives an almost imperceptible shake of her head but gives her friend’s hand a slight squeeze in reassurance. “I’m fine, really. You go on.”

Tahlia leaves and with her goes the last vestigial warmth. And Cyresse stays. She stays until after the last casket is laid and after the last mourner has left for shelter. Evening’s begun to draw close around her when she finally moves, detangling her hands from where they’d been crossed tightly over her chest out in front of her into a long stretch. In the shadows of the ruins she looks down upon her outstretched arms, dappled under the rising moon, to her hands that seem to resist its glow, as if they’d been stained dark as the night.

 

-

 

The next evening, ships of the Eternal Fleet arrive. Five enourmous, gleaming battlecruisers descend on Odessen. The Alliance Council’s remaining members along with Lana Beniko are gathered at the hangar bay to greet their triumphant counterparts. Darth Occlus, regal as ever, is the first to disembark, her omnipresent Dashade close by her side. Following in her wake are a wave of more than a dozen or so Skytroopers and battle droids.

“They’re ours now.” Occlus lowers her hood, revealing dark hair elegantly twisted into elaborate braids that framed her pale face. She waves serenely at the droids surrounding her, “no need for alarm.” The droids themselves immediately fall back, weapons directed placatingly towards the ground.

“Still makes me want to stab them in the gut.” Tahlia mutters under her breath, her hand instinctively drawing to her lightsaber.

“Where’s Captain Vontair?” Lana asks stepping forward, “I hope he’s not bringing more of them.”

“I left Vontair to safeguard the throne.” Occlus replies, as her attention roams to her surroundings, taking in the ruins of the hangar bay. “Wouldn’t do to leave it empty in case there’s another of Valkorion’s spawn we don’t know about.”

“As for the droids,” she continues, making her way to where a skeleton crew of Alliance personnel had gathered to resurrect a fallen support beam. Channeling the force, she effortlessly lifts it up and into its intended position. “I feared Vaylin might still be tearing things down around here.” She turns a cool gaze to Cyresse. “Looks like she managed a fair share before she died. Your work I presume?”

“No,” Cyresse shrugs, with a glance to Lana. “We’re still not quite sure what happened exactly. It’s almost as if her own powers backfired upon her.”

“Wait” Tahlia quips, “you left the Captain in charge of the Throne? The last thing we need right now is the entire Eternal Fleet commandeered for a large scale smuggling operation.”

A sudden image pops into Cyresse’s mind – that of the debonair captain, perched sideways along the Eternal Throne, legs propped up over one side and giant floppy hat askew, a glass of Corellian whiskey in the other. She can almost hear Fabian Vontair drawl, “Now this, _this_ is what victory tastes like.”

It’s almost certainly a conjuration of Tahlia’s privy to her through their bond in the Force. She glances at the young Twi’lek, who flashes her a small, lopsided grin.

“I wouldn’t worry.” Occlus replies with a low laugh, “Zakuul has plenty of distractions easily available to the hedonistic. I’ve made sure the Captain is preoccupied for now, though I could be inclined to share the details if any of you are interested?”

Tahlia raises an eyebrow at that, “Do I want to know? On second thought, no, please skip the details.”

“As you wish Master Faye.” Occlus acquiesces with the hint of a smirk ghosting her lips. “But I’m thinking we should have a celebration of our own sort here. After everything this place has been through, the troops deserve it.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves”, Lana interjects, “We still need to decide the future of this Alliance.”

“Ever the pragmatist Beniko.” Tahlia mock-scowls, but slips her arm companionably around the Sith’s waist. Lana colours a little but continues, “Once we have reached a consensus we ought to – ”

“And what consensus would we have to reach?” Tahlia asks, “I for one assumed we would continue with what we have here. An Alliance led by a council impartial to Republic or Empire.”

“This council is hardly impartial.” Lana demurres, “with Zorex’s death, it leaves Occlus as the only remaining Imperial member and neither of you can claim not to be a partisan of the Republic.”

“Well, you could be part of it.” Tahlia suggests as Lana shakes her head diminutively. She releases the arm she had around Lana’s waist to look her in the eye. “You’ve been just a big a part of this as any of us have.”

“That’s hardly the point. And in that case we might as well include Theron which wouldn’t serve–”

“This isn’t important.” The two turn to Cyresse, her voice sounding somewhat higher than its usual pitch. “I meant, not crucial.” She says stiffly. “Not right now anyway. The more pressing matter is what we should do with the Throne.”

“I agree with Master Gray.” Occlus chimes in elegantly, “Empty, the Throne presents an opportunity to anyone foolhardy enough to try and claim it. And yet, it would hardly do for us to take turns keeping it warm.”

“We could destroy it?” Tahlia shrugs, “I mean, it’s tainted by Valkorion. Who knows how many years he spent on that thing and what he did on it”

“We’d lose control of the Eternal Fleet!” Lana turns back to her horrified.

“The Eternal Fleet is a weapon of mass destruction –”

“Which the Alliance _needs_ in order to survive. How long before either Republic or Empire decides we’re the bigger threat to their sovereignty?”

“Enough, please.” Feeling the beginnings of a headache, Cyresse pressed two fingers to her temple, a habit she’d subconsciously picked up from Theron. Long discussions were something she never enjoyed and begrudgingly tolerated with Lana usually physically forcing her to attend council meetings. Even back then, she’d been relieved when the Jedi had appointed Tahlia – younger and in some eyes, less experienced – to the Jedi council instead of herself.

Well at least she tried to convince herself it was relief. Other days… Other days she worried the council had finally realized how tainted their revered protégée had become.

 Or rather, a small voice echoes in the back of her mind, had _always_ been _._

“I’m starting to think celebrating first is a better idea now.” Cyresse says to the present council in attendance. There was no point in debating for hours in hope of a resolution she knew was needed but was certain would never come.

Occlus smiles, baring a set of perfect porcelain teeth. “Excellent, I’ll begin preparations.” She waves to her Skytroopers to follow her lead as she saunters further into the wreckage that was once the Alliance’s headquarters. “We’ll need to fix up the Cantina for a start.”

“Great.” Lana shoots Cyresse a narrowed glare, “When you finally deign to care about the fate of the galaxy, you know where to find me.” She stalks off in the direction of the war room.

Cyresse herself turns to head towards the medical bay. It’s quiet and far less crowded than when she’d first been admitted, the glow and hum of the Kolto tanks that line the far wall giving her a strange sense of peace. Walking past the mostly vacant beds, she stops to take a seat beside one where a man lays dormant, sheets tucked over his chest.

In rest he seems so _peaceful_ , Cyresse wonders, if not for the tubing secured to various orifices in his body it’d almost appear as if he were lost in a kind of pleasant reverie. She extends a hand, almost hesitantly, to graze lightly across his cheek – something she’d never dared to do when he’d been conscious. His skin is oddly hot to the touch, almost as if he were running a fever, and the stubble that winds down the length of his jaw has grown sharp in the last few days.

“Theron” she leans in to whisper into his ear, noticing how his usual scent – of musk and leather and blaster oil – is achingly absent. In its place, a sterile, rather astringent smell congenital to the med-bay pervades. “If you can hear this, they say Valkorion’s dead. I don’t know how, I don’t even know if I can believe.“ She reaches down to take his hand – another thing she’d never done when he’d been awake.

If only he’d wake up now. If Valkorion were truly gone, maybe, just maybe they could…

“We need you.” She murmurs softly, “there’s so much –“, pausing, she searches for a word, her eyes roaming up his arm to his face. She wonders that she’s never seen him this restful before. Awake, even during the rare moments of downtime they’d had, he’d always been filled with a kind of restless energy, his fingers thrumming a steady staccato, his amber eyes alight with a fire she found hard to look away from. “There’s so much _uncertainty,_ ” she continues, swallowing hard. _“_ Please come back. _I_ need you.”

Instinctively she pushes away the vision that relishes tormenting her whenever she dares to get close to him. She tries not to pay heed to how the fluorescent lights of the medical bay have dimmed to a ghastly dull glow. Nor how the stark white walls around her have transfigured to ancient pillars encircled in runes she can’t transcribe.

She shuts out the high-pitched whine of a machine reverberating through the room, as flashes of electricity crackle and shoot out towards the prone figure trapped in a tall chamber atop a narrow flight of stairs.

“Cyresse?” A familiar voice breaks through the noise, scattering the shadows and restoring light to her surroundings.

“You alright?” The concerned face of Master Tahlia Faye asks.

“Yea, yeah – I’m fine.” Cyresse stands up quickly; she’s lost track of time and her left foot’s been reduced to pins and needles.

“You’re having those visions again, aren’t you?”

Cyresse nods and looks away.

“We all saw everyone we knew and loved dead. You know it’s not true. It’s just some lousy side effect of the carbonite poisoning and Valkorion’s meddling. They’re alive, you’ve seen that – well at least the ones we know about.”

“I know, it’s just – what if Valkorion just wants us to think he’s gone, like how he did that time in the forest. I just can’t shake the feeling he’s still _in_ me somehow.”

“You may be right.” Tahlia concedes quietly, “Valkorion’s power, I can’t claim to understand its limits and I will admit I have my suspicions. But what you’re going through, maybe it’s not Valkorion.” She gently takes her friend’s hand in hers. “Maybe it’s simply manifestations of your own guilt.”

“It’s got nothing to do with that.”

“I’ve noticed how it affects you.” Tahlia persists, “The way you fight. The way you throw yourself in the deep end without thinking twice of your own mortality.”

“How am I supposed to fight then?” Cyresse retorts bitterly, “I can’t do what you do. I’m no healer. I can’t just stand by waiting till someone gets hurt before doing something.”

Tahlia Faye’s ever-calm demeanor wavers for about a millisecond before resuming with just a trace of tightness to her jaw that hadn’t been there before.

“I’m sorry.” Cyresse sighs, “that was unfair, and cruel of me. I know what you do - it’s a lot more than that.”

“It’s fine.” Tahlia shrugs, although her tone carries with it a slight edge. “I just wish you’d be a bit more careful. If not for yourself then for the ones who care about you.” She glances pointedly at Theron.

Cyresse sits back down and presses the palms of her hands against her forehead.

“Look,” Tahlia says, pausing to place the satchel she’d been carrying with her onto the floor. “I know our paths have been very different. But maybe – ” She opens its flap and rummages through the contents. “Maybe some of the things I’ve learnt could guide you in finding peace.”

Carefully, she pulls out a holocron and places it in Cyresse’s hands. Unlike the one they’d discovered on Nathema, this one is smaller, lighter, the intricate scrolling of its outer casing reminiscent of those she’d studied back in the Jedi temple on Tython. From the inside a clear blue light shone, eager for release.

“What is this?” Cyresse asks.

“Just a little something I worked on back in the day – with a rather peculiar Bothan Jedi Master I might add,” Tahlia muses, “I was going to include a little more of my experiences since then, but I think maybe it’s better served to help you – if it can.”

She gives her friend a slight squeeze on the shoulder and departs, leaving Cyresse alone with her thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this far and Yay to you if you spotted those little easter eggs (: 
> 
> For further context I thought I might add detail on the Alliance Council members, they are:
> 
> Jedi Knight: Cyresse Gray  
> Jedi Consular: Tahlia Faye  
> Sith Warrior: Darth Zorex (deceased)  
> Sith Inquisitor: Zephyra Kallistan - Darth Occlus  
> Smuggler: Captain Fabian Vontair*
> 
> *Of the above, Vontair was the only one who wasn't on Darth Marr's ship when it encountered the Eternal Fleet. How he became an 'Outlander' will be detailed later on. The other characters will also have important roles to play as the story progresses.


	4. Prophecies in the Dark

Lana’s just out of the fresher and contemplating what to wear when her door chimes. She shrugs on a grey dressing gown and crosses the length of her quarters to let Tahlia in. The Jedi gives her a coy look of appraisal as she steps in. “You ought to get a medal just for looking like that.”

Lana gives her a soft smack on the shoulder. “I highly doubt Occlus would approve,” she sighs, resuming the tedious task of sorting through her rack of clothing – mostly dark coloured tunics in varying shades of green or grey – for something ‘presentable’ enough to wear. The award ceremony – and corresponding party at that, were both Occlus’ ideas for improving Alliance morale. The Sith Lord, like many who experienced swift reversals of fortune, had a penchant for extravagance and opulence. It went without saying – though it _was_ said, and then reiterated several times – that the Council and its trusted advisors show their full support for these events. This apparently included dressing the part.

Tahlia leans in and picks out a simple, but well structured sheath dress that had been doing its best to avoid detection at the back of Lana’s wardrobe. It’s a deep forest green with a slight satin finish, almost entirely un-Lana and yet paradoxically so very like her. 

“I don’t know…” Lana frowns, rubbing the material between her thumb and forefinger. “Don’t you think it’s a bit, well, much?”

Tahlia grins. “I think it’ll look amazing on you,” she lets her hand rest lightly cupping Lana’s chin. “You know how I like it when you wear green. I like to think you’re trying to coordinate with me.”

Lana chuckles, raising her hand to rest upon Tahlia’s own, her pale skin contrasting with the green of the Twi’leks. “You’ve sold me.” She takes the dress from Tahlia and heads to the fresher, “Talk to me while I change?”

“Yea,” Tahlia settles on a nearby couch to wait. “You know I tried to get Occlus to give you one. A medal I mean. After all you’ve done for us, you’d think Miss Control Freak would agree.”

She hears a soft laughter amid the rustle of clothes before Lana responds, “I appreciate that but you know how I feel about medals.”

“And titles.” Tahlia scoffs, “Well I guess they’re often given more to the people who need them than those who deserve it. Sometimes though, it almost seems the worse you’re treated the more you enjoy it. Certainly explains –.” She pauses, realizing she probably shouldn’t continue with that particular train of thought.

“Why I stayed with the Empire?” Lana finishes her sentence as she emerges from the refresher. Looking up at her, Tahlia, not for the first moment that day is left feeling rather speechless and also feeling well, a lot of the things the Jedi were always told specifically _not_ to feel about other people.

“Yea, uh, well there’s that.” she manages.

Lana quietly takes a seat beside her and the two ponder in silence for a while. Eventually Tahlia takes Lana’s hand, “You’re not still angry at me, are you? About the other day?”

“At you? No.” Lana does not meet her eye. “That doesn’t mean I agree with you. I’ve accepted we will always have our… differences.”

“Is that so bad?”

“I don’t know. When it comes to matters of importance,” Lana stands, pulling her hand free of Tahlia’s hold to cross over her chest as she paces the length of her room, brow furrowed in thought. “If things were simple, _simpler,_ maybe. But this galaxy isn’t one where we can afford to have idealistic notions.”

“I’m idealistic, you’re unwaveringly practical. I like to think we balance each other out.”

“We need the throne, you know that.”

“And you know the galaxy would be better off without it. 

“I don’t want to argue.” Lana sighs heavily, crossing back to her wardrobe where she slips on a discreet pair of black heels. After a moment’s pause she cinches a belt around her waist and clips her lightsaber on. “Not now at any rate. We’re going to be late to that blasted ceremony.”

“Wait.” Tahlia catches her arm before the Sith turns to the door. She brushes a kiss, soft, against her forehead before looking her in the eye. “We’ll work it out.” Her voice is almost a whisper, “We always do.”

 

\---

 

Darth Occlus’ ceremony goes off without a hitch.

It’s evening by the time all the medals have been given out and the cantina’s well supplied with various ales and spirits for the party to come. Occlus has even managed quite an entertainment line-up with Malita Tal and her band playing the opening act. One would be surprised really, to discover just how many budding musicians and singers could exist within a rebel Alliance. Even Occlus considers herself a novice at the mandoviol, though no one alive has actually heard her play.

She stands in the shadows, observing as the crowd pours into the cantina. She senses their merriment and anticipation of the night ahead, as something that could pass for a smile flits across her face. C2-N2 displays his delight more exuberantly as he rushes from person to person offering drinks, perishable food, cushions or combinations of all three.

Cyresse picks her way through the crowd in what she fancies as the most absurd get-up she’s ever worn. Not that she frequently had the chance to attend anything fancier than the odd ceremony or party thrown in her honour for saving some Alderaanian noble or other. At least it has pants, she thinks to herself, though the material’s terribly thin and clingy and the cape that flows from her shoulders is so long it counteracts any practicality her outfit might otherwise offer. She’d found it stashed away in the cargo hold of her ship, somehow still locked away in place despite the five year tour it had had in her absence. She’d been glad to find it still; it’d been a gift from Doc, a promise they’d go somewhere the war hadn’t touched. Somewhere she could pretend for a moment, that she wasn’t Cyresse Gray, sworn Jedi Knight, with the weight of saving the Republic on her shoulders.

A promise she left broken when she’d lost her mind to Him. It was never quite the same after.

She accepts a drink from a passing serving droid and takes a large gulp. The alcohol burns down her throat in a way that she particularly needs it to right now. She’s not wont for drinking. Like parties it wasn’t something she often had the time – or capacity for pleasure –for as a Jedi. She smiles and nods politely through the small talk with Len, and Ralo, and all the others she barely remembers as the night goes on and her drinks are refilled.

Eventually she finds Darth Occlus. Steering her towards a somewhat more isolated corner of the cantina, she takes the Sith by the arm, “I need to talk to you.

“I’m all ears Master Gray,” Occlus regards her with one perfectly raised eyebrow, her slim gloved hand wrapped exquisitely around the stem of a cocktail glass, its contents glimmering the rich, ruby red of a polychromic crystal. 

“It’s about Vitia – Valkorion.” Cyresse says, “I need to know how you defeated him. I need to know he’s really gone. 

“Must we discuss this now, in the middle of a party?” Occlus asks archly, noticing how the Jedi’s complexion has turned a tinge ruddy and her words have taken on a slight slur.

“Yes, now.” Cyresse insists. “I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for days but you’ve been busy with, you know, _this_.” She gesticulates rather adamantly at the party going on in their vicinity.

“You do know how to enjoy yourself don’t you?” Occlus places a hand at the small of Cyresse’s back as she guides the rather inebriated Jedi towards the backroom of the Cantina. Once inside she waves to dismiss the Skytrooper standing guard there – in case anyone thought to pilfer a stash of drinks - and when the doors slide shut she turns back to Cyresse. “Very well, but on one condition. I’d like to know exactly what happened with Vaylin.”

 

\---

 

It’s sometime close to midnight when Darth Occlus emerges from the backroom and rejoins the party. Meanwhile Cyresse remains cloistered in the backroom, having taken a seat on a crate of ale; she ruminates ponderously over the dredges in the bottle of spiced wine they’d opened mid-way through Occlus’ tale. She must have dozed off after a while for when she comes to the noise in the cantina has dimmed and most of the party has retreated to their quarters save for the few passed out under or over tables. A small crowd remains, Lana scowling across the table at Gault and Hylo, the hand holding her pazaak cards clenched tightly. Occlus leans graciously against the couch beside Lana, looking rather amused.

The group absorbed in their game, have not taken notice of her, for which Cyresse is grateful. Her head’s pounding an erratic beat and the last thing she needs is to be goaded into a game of pazaak where the odds – knowing its players – would always be against her. She’s almost at the door to her chambers when a soft beeping emits from her holocommunicator alerting her to a missed call and message from Tahlia, dated almost an hour ago.

Need to talk to you. In my quarters.

Wearily, Cyresse turns around and heads in the opposite direction. Tahlia’s quarters were, by her request, located close behind the medical bay so that she’d be close by in case of any emergency. Unfortunately for Cyresse that means it’s practically on the other end of the base from where her own quarters are located.

The corridors are eerily quiet at this hour save for the sharp whistle of wind around particularly sharp corners. The walls and floor are paved stone – a material abundant on Odessen due to its mountainous geography – and Cyresse’s footsteps echo hollowly as she makes her way past the medical bay towards Tahlia’s chambers. She hopes Tahlia’s summons has to do with her having found some way to cure Theron of whatever it was that was keeping him unconscious. She’d checked in on him just before the ceremony earlier in the day and his condition hadn’t changed. None of the medics – not even their own resident mad scientist, Doctor Oggurobb, could figure out what was wrong with him. Theron’s running a slight fever and showed signs of a mild concussion but nothing otherwise that would explain a prolonged coma. After an attempt at healing him, Tahlia postulated his condition was one of the Force, an infliction he’d suffered from Vaylin most like, and had then proceeded to bury herself in her collection of holocrons for an answer. 

Tahlia’s door is unlocked and opens readily for Cyresse to enter. The chamber beyond lies in darkness, as it often is when the Barsen’thor is meditating, the walls lit only by the flicker of two candles in the far corner by the bed. Cyresse ventures forward gingerly, straining to reach out with the Force to get a better sense of her surroundings. It’s difficult to concentrate, her mind’s muddled, in large part due to the alcohol she’d consumed.

“Tahlia?” She calls out softly to the enveloping darkness, reluctant to snap her friend out of meditation, yet impatient also to hear of news about Theron, when her boot collides against something heavy and hard. Among Tahlia’s many varied interests, she’d picked up a fascination with learning more about Odesson’s previous inhabitants. In her free time she’d make excursions out to ruin sites beyond the base, often returning having excavated an artifact or other – sometimes as large as a block of crumbling wall, and to protect them from further damage from the elements, hoarded them in her own quarters where she spent a great deal of time attempting to decipher its ancient runes.

Cyresse steps aside precariously, not wanting to tread on any of Tahlia’s precious collections that litter her chamber – if there’s one word to describe the Barsen’thor, it’s definitely _not_ neat – when the back of her heel bumps into something else, this time somewhat softer. Cyresse glances down only for her vision to metamorphosize the darkness around her, transmuting the shadows to a familiar figure lying prone on the floor, lightsaber a short distance away from its limp hand.

Shaking her head to rid herself of the incorporeal scene before her, she stumbles backward, only to trip on her damned cloak and land with an ungainly thump on the cold ground. From her vantage point here, the vision seems all the more real, and for that so much _closer._ She tries not to notice how the wound stretching across the fallen Jedi’s chest is long and deep, its width wider than a vibroblade, the edges clean.

As Cyresse struggles to untangle her cloak beneath her she realizes the back of her pants and parts of her cloak are wet, darker in stretches where it’d once been white. She reaches out with a shaky hand, involuntarily shuddering as she brushes across its damp surface.

Her fingertips come away slick with blood.


End file.
